America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(15)

“Okay, but you have to tell me all the details next time.” She glances around with a smile. “And thanks for bringing out all the volunteers. I didn’t realize when I started getting questions about if you were coming, that it meant so many people would want to talk to you. But then someone showed me the video, and—”

“Sarah? Sarah!”

“Yeah. Gotta go,” I say. I dart back to my car, Mackenzie on my heels.

“Are you mad?” she whispers.

“No.”

“You’re acting mad.”

“I’m surprised. And I hate attention. And why do people think we’re dating? We’re not dating. And—”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug that says she clearly knows.

“Mackenzie…”

She chews on her bottom lip and gives me the puppy dog look.

I cross my arms and glare at her, which sends someone who was halfway through calling Sarah! to turn around and head the other way, and which also makes me feel like slime, because I hate glaring at Mackenzie. She’s my best friend. And I still owe her the truth, and I really hope she stays my best friend after I confess to her.

“Okay, look. I read gossip pages,” my best friend whispers. “And it’s all about chemistry. Chemistry on set, chemistry walking down Sunset Boulevard, chemistry at a secret dinner in New York City, chemistry in interviews. You and Beck have chemistry. People eat that up. And if I let you edit that video, you would’ve taken out all the chemistry, and like, maybe a third of the people who care right now would’ve listened. I did it for the cause. Swear on the Fireballs’ winning streak, it was all for the cause. Saving the giraffes is so much more romantic when people think there’s a secret relationship behind the video.”

“It’s not—listen, I have to tell you something.”

“Sarah! Oh my gosh, Sarah,” yet one more person hollers, and dammit.

“I have to get out of here,” I tell Mackenzie. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Please don’t be mad.”

I squeeze her in a hug, because she’s basically family, and I might be mad, but I still love her. “Do not comment at all on anything related to that video. Understand? And you have to promise you won’t be mad at me either.”

“Sarah. Oh my god. Why would anyone be mad at you?”

I wince, because she’s going to find out soon enough.

It takes a little maneuvering, but I make it out of the parking lot around the volunteers arriving for clean-up day. Half a mile down the road, I spot a strip mall with a packed parking lot. I park near the back—employee cars, I assume, so little foot traffic here—and I pull out my phone and dial a number.

The sun won’t be up yet in California, but my mother might be.

An hour of yoga before the sun rises puts a beautiful day in your soul.

She answers on the first ring. “Serendipity! You called! I thought you might.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“So. When do we get to meet your boyfriend?”

“I don’t—”

“Nonsense. Franklin already sent me the video. Sweetheart. Your hair. You’re not going to keep a man like Beck Ryder happy with hair like that for long.”

“He likes picking the bugs out of it.”

“Serendipity Astrid Darling, what a horrible thing to say. I know you wash your hair too often to get bugs. Although—what’s this about bees? I had no idea you loved bees. Have you been on beekeeper dating sites? Is that why you’re on the Twitters talking about bees?”

“No, I—”

“And the giraffes! Oh, sweetheart, I had no idea giraffes were endangered. Do you remember the giraffe that came to your seventh birthday? You were so afraid of it. But don’t worry, your father and I are making a very sizable donation to giraffe research. And I assume our dear Mr. Ryder has done the same?”

“Yes, and he has four or five thousand a year,” I mutter to myself.

“Mr. Ryder is no Mr. Darcy, young lady,” my mom informs me. “If I’d known you were interested in former musicians, I could have gotten in touch with my agent to see if we could arrange an introduction to Cash Rivers. Now there’s a Mr. Darcy for you.”

“Mom—”

“I know, I know, dear. It’s all for publicity’s sake to clear his name, and Cash Rivers does have that nose. Now, what can we do to help?”

“Just—just please don’t say anything. To anyone. The attention will blow over. I don’t want—”

“Our names involved,” she finishes, and I cringe at the hurt tone in her voice.

I don’t want to hurt my mom. Or my dad.

But Hollywood-level attention and I don’t get along well.

Changing my name, taking a gap year in Morocco, and then enrolling in a small technical university in Copper Valley—all the way across the country from my parents and their high-profile lifestyle—worked perfectly to give me the anonymity I desperately needed after high school.

After my entire childhood, actually, but high school was the worst.

“It’s not you,” I say quietly.

“I know, Serendipity.” She sighs briefly again, which adds to the guilt cockleburs sticking to my socks and making my skin itch all over. “It’s just—never mind.”